


all in the name of...

by lexorcist



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 80's Music, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Complicated Relationships, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Music, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Partying, Relationship Issues, Rock Stars, Rockstar AU, Secret Relationship, This Will Likely Go To Some Dark Places And I'm Only a Little Bit Sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21765079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexorcist/pseuds/lexorcist
Summary: The 1980s. The bar scene. A breeding ground for sex, drugs, and rock & roll. And maybe some awkward romance? Some rising to fame? Some tumultuous relationships? Probably all three, as far as Billy and Steve are concerned. [AU]. [There are no demogorgons here]. [Although there may be demons of the personal variety]. [There be dark themes and heavy topics ahead, folks, but I promise some fun along the way!].
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley/Heather Holloway
Kudos: 15





	all in the name of...

**Chicago, Illinois * September 14, 1985**

The floor is so sticky that Steve's bouncing heel gets trapped. Even so, he cannot stop. He drums his fingers against the tabletop, too- also sticky, barely wiped down between beer spills and sloshed wine, vodka; there is a gummy residue left behind it all, a stain that could be tequila or something worse. Robin sits beside him. She is leaned back in her chair with her feet resting on the edge of the table. She is watching him. Steve can feel her eyes each time they slide in his direction and when they land on him again he says, "Stop it." He doesn't look at her, though. His eyes are straight ahead, on the stage all swirled with smoke from all the cigarettes lit up throughout the room. One of them dangles between Billy's lips, gray ghosts looping up from the red hot tip and sweeping around his face as he puffs lazily. Even in the shadows Steve can see the deep, dark bruise blooming over his left eye. Billy tilts his head up, his face obscured by the lights, but Steve knows it's there. 

"Have you talked to him?" Robin asks.

"About what?" Steve asks. When Robin does not say, he turns briefly to her, just quickly enough to see her point to her own face, to her unmarked left eye. Steve shakes his head. He returns to Billy and says, "He's not gonna talk about it."

"Not even to you?" Robin asks.

"No," Steve says. He is watching Billy absently twirl a drumstick between his fingers; effortless, even thoughtless. Heather comes up from the other side of the stage. She rests a hand on Billy's shoulder, kisses his cheek- a pre-show ritual, _good luck_. Someone at the bar sees it and shouts, encouraging a wave of _whoops!_ through the small crowd. Heather rolls her eyes at it, acts embarrassed, looks over her shoulder at Billy who winks at her and stirs up a whole new wave of clapping and _woo_ -ing. "Don't they need you?" Steve asks Robin. Heather is at the microphone now, and Jonathan has exchanged his camera for a beat-up bass. 

"Order me a beer," Robin says, slapping her hands on the table before jumping to her feet. When Steve looks quizzically at her she shrugs. "I get thirsty. Get something for your boyfriend, too." 

"Yeah, yeah," Steve says. He waves her off, but he cannot hide his smile, and she nudges his shoulder before she bouncing up the steps and swinging the strap of her own guitar over her shoulder. On Steve's other side, in the empty seat he and Robin had been saving, Nancy drops her purse.

"Am I late?" she asks. The overhead lights, whatever dim ones are stuck up in the ceiling, go out and the big, white circle of the spotlight is thrown onto the stage. Steve is vaguely disoriented, blinks in the dark, squints against the harsh glare of the spotlight until the shadow at the back of the stage turns back into Billy. If Steve watches closely, he can watch Billy change - _transform_ \- under the lights. He juts up his chin and rolls back his shoulders. He is already tapping one cymbal lightly, lightly, lightly as Heather greets the crowd, as Robin plucks one string, as Jonathan follows her single note with a small gathering of his own. 

"Right on time," he says to Nancy. 

She isn't really listening. Steve knows this. He knows that she is watching Jonathan the same way that Steve is watching Billy, that the both of them will only be vaguely aware of anyone else's presence for the next thirty minutes. The set, of course, goes off without a hitch. Steve knew it would; told Billy it would, to which Billy only grunted. He hadn't spoken much on the ride in from Hawkins, hadn't spoken at all. He'd switched the radio station and rolled down the windows and let the cold, rushing wind battle the crackling speakers all the way to this dark little street. But on that stage, with the lights down low, he's different. He uncoils. With every strike of the drums, with every pounding beat, he becomes more and more himself. He looks the part, too. Every bit. The leather jacket left open, the sweat beading on his bare chest- his shirt, of course, shed before he even left the car, thrown over the headrest of the passenger seat. His hair loose and hanging over his shoulders, getting in his eyes, sticking to his temples. When his cigarette has been smoked down to a stub, he flicks it off-stage and tugs another from his pocket, lighting up between songs, the smoke as much a part of him as the drumsticks, the setlist, the crashing symbols, the low baselines that shake the tiny building.

It lasts, too. The way Billy unwinds, the way he comes into himself. It lingers even after the lights come back on, after Billy stamps out his cigarette on the snare (much to the chagrin of the onlooking stagehand, who looks angry when he sees it but sinks back when Billy rises to his full height to follow the others off the stage) and the band leaves the stage, all of them sweaty, breathless, Billy himself drenched. Nancy and Steve linger at their table, order drinks that sit and wait while girls flock around Billy, bump elbows with Jonathan, while Robin slings an arm around Heather's shoulders and bites witty one-word quips at the drunk frat guys that ask for their numbers. People buy them all drinks that they accept only to leave them, untouched, on the bar. As it gets later the crowd gets thinner. Jonathan is the first to find his way to the table, kissing Nancy and taking a sip of her drink. Next comes Heather, with Robin in tow, and as they approach Steve holds up the beer that Robin had requested.

"My hero," Robin says, only half-joking, as she falls back into her seat. Heather sits beside her in the last open seat. Billy arrives last, as he always does, and he swings an empty chair from the next table over and straddles it as he slings one arm briefly over Steve's shoulder and stamps the briefest kiss to Steve's jaw- sloppy, a near-miss, so-quick-you-might-miss it. He smells like sweat and alcohol, the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to his skin, the smell of his shampoo just-barely wafting off of him. Steve will kiss him later and he will taste like salt and whiskey. Now, he reaches across Steve, grabs the half-finished Pabst in front of him and chugs the remainder in a single gulp. Steve thinks about taking it from him, about telling him slow down- he'd brought a water bottle full of vodka in the car, had done shots with Heather before going on stage. Instead, he stretches and rests his arm on Billy's back. 

"You guys did good," Steve says, to everyone, but to Billy most of all. 

"We did fucking great," Robin declares. 

"I saw some regulars," Nancy says, motioning around the room. 

"We've got a small following," Heather says modestly.

"It's growing, though," Robin reminds her. 

"I still feel like we get a little flat on the back-end," Jonathan admits. 

"Get your ears checked," Billy grumbles. He is lighting another cigarette. The smoke drifts toward Steve's face, tickles his nose. 

"We can do better," Jonathan shrugs. "That's all I'm saying."

"We can always do better," Heather agrees.

"We fucking killed it," Billy says. 

"Here, here!" Robin agrees, raising her own beer. Billy lifts the full can that Steve had ordered for him. He and Robin cheers across the table, each of them tilting their heads back to drink. 

"We'll talk about the back-end at practice," Heather says to Jonathan. "I think I know what you're talking about."

"And let's table it until then," Robin says. 

"Here, here," Billy agrees. Again, they cheers, and again they tilt back their heads, and again Steve thinks about slowing Billy down. Later, he will wish he had. For now, though, Billy is happy. He is smiling when he comes up for air. He is laughing, he is joking, he is not thinking about the purple ring around his eye or the fist that put it there, and Steve thinks that he should let Billy have this, this moment, this time _away_. He wants the high of the show, of the lights and the drums and the crowd drunkenly slurring along, to last as long as he can make it. 

"To Mind Flayer!" Heather declares, holding up the water bottle she'd brought with her from the stage. 

"I cannot _believe_ we let actual children name us," Robin says, but she is laughing as she says it, and the others laugh, too. 

"To Mind Flayer," Jonathan says, holding up the drink he was now sharing with Nancy. Steve raises the empty can that Billy had drained, and Billy lifts his nearly-empty can a third time. When he tips his head back this time, he downs the rest. It is not long before they are the last ones in the bar, the last group still clinging to their table as others are wiped down, as mops are brought out. The manager gives them a warning, but does not complain- not _too_ much -when they linger longer than his proffered limit. He does keep watching them, though, and eventually Steve nudges Billy gently.

"It's late," he says. Billy doesn't say anything. He grabs Steve's arm, the one resting on the table, and checks Steve's watch. "We've got a long ride back."

Billy only grunts. He shakes the last few drops of beer from his can and stands, stumbling only slightly, waving off Heather when she asks if he's okay. She looks at Steve, who only shrugs his shoulders. "He's fine," Steve says.

"He always is," Heather sighs. 

The band is quick to gather their things, to say their goodbyes. Heather squeezes Billy tight and makes him promise to call her in the morning. She and Robin pile into the backseat of Jonathan's car, and they all wave their last goodbyes as they pull away from their spot at the back door of the bar. Billy has peeled off his jacket, which now reeks of sweat, and tugs on his shirt as he drops into the passenger seat. He shivers a little at the cold outside, the chilly fall air grown chillier with the dark, and Steve turns up the heat as high as he can make it. 

"Hey," he says softly, and Billy looks to him. Steve gently touches his fingertips to Billy's chin and kisses him- soft, chaste, but Billy smiles and goes in for a second, a deeper one, and it takes all of Steve's self control not to jump over the console. He pulls away, brushes his thumb over Billy's cheek, lets his fingers wander up and softly touch the bruise. Billy does not jerk away like Steve expects, but he does wince ever-so-slightly. "Are you okay?" Steve asks.

"Fine," Billy murmurs quietly. 

"Don't lie," Steve says.

"I'll be fine," Billy says, and this time he turns- turns away, turns his eyes to the road, closes them and rests his head back against the seat. Steve sighs. He turns on the radio, still tuned the station Billy had chosen. Billy does not fiddle with the knobs. Dio is playing, _Rock 'n' Roll Children_ , and Billy hums along just slightly off-beat. Steve puts the car in drive. With one last good look at Billy, at his profile, at the shadow of his black eye and at his lips moving with the music, he drives away.

* * *

**Hawkins, Indiana * September 15, 1985**

Max Mayfield sits outside 4819 Cherry Lane.

She is wearing her brother's denim jacket and the damn thing swallows her whole. Her legs are pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them- the long sleeves of Billy's jacket hanging loose and just-barely hitting the ground. She rests her chin on her knees. She stares at the road; checks her watch- 2:24am; stares at the road. When she hears tires, the gentle rumbling of an engine, she perks up. Headlights arc down the street and when a red BMW comes into view Max rises to her feet. She begins her way down the front walk, glancing over her shoulder with every other step. She is at the curb before Steve pulls up, yanking at the passenger door before he even unlocks it.

"What's the rush?" Steve asks when she gets it open. She holds a finger to her lips, looks back at the house. Billy is half asleep. He blinks blearily up at her and, just like that, Steve sees the high wash away. He sees Billy's shoulders draw back up, sees his jaw set. Max bends down and Billy doesn't protest when she hooks his arm around her slender shoulders. "Hey," Steve says, keeping his voice down. "I just take him to my place," he offers.

"Neil will look for him," Max says.

"Is he mad?" Steve asks. 

"He'll get over it," Max says.

"For how long?" Steve asks.

"Steve," Billy says in a groggy sing-song. This means, _not now_. This means, _drop it_. This means, _this isn't your fucking business_. Again, Steve sighs. He reaches for Billy's hand, squeezes it. This means, _I'm sorry_. This means, _I just care about you_. This means, _I love you and I don't want you hurt_. Billy squeezes back, a little weakly in his inebriation, before he pulled out of Steve's reach. Billy stumbles, but Max is quick to right him. 

"I'll see you tomorrow?" Steve asks. 

"Tomorrow," Billy repeats, nodding.

"I'll remind him," Max says. 

"Don't need you," Billy grumbles.

"Get him to bed," Steve says. He watches as Max pulls Billy toward the house, as she gets him inside. He sees the light flick on inside Billy's bedroom window and doesn't drive away until he sees it turn off. 

In the morning, Steve will wake to an empty and he will wish that Billy is beside him. He will want to call, but he will not be able to - he will not be allowed. And he will worry. He will worry about what happened after he left Cherry Lane, he will wonder if Neil Hargrove woke Billy this morning, will pray that those battered knuckles haven't found new targets. He will ache with all his worry, will feel it strangle everything inside of him until he sees Billy, frowning at his own hangover, his sunglasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, rolling up to the quarry. He will not be able to help himself- will kiss Billy the moment he's close enough, will tell him, "Hello.", will tell him, "I love you." - will hear Billy, oh so softly, whisper it back. 


End file.
